Hard Crack
by Postapocalypticdepository
Summary: It's that stage in candy making when the temperature is a rolling, churning, boiling cauldron of over three hundred degrees. When cold, it's as brittle as glass. When cooled it breaks, making the unmistakable sound of a rock hurling through a windshield or someone succumbing to thin ice. At least that's the childhood memory it reminded me of—before I died.
1. Hard Crack

Stephenie Meyer owns all _Twilight_ entitlements. These words are mine.

* * *

**Hard Crack**

Hard Crack. I hear it before I feel it, but I don't think about what I'm anticipating. Instead I remember what the sound reminded me of. Grandma smells. Sugary delights. Happier times. Carefree childhood, until it wasn't. Hard Crack. I hear Grandma's voice telling me it's that stage in candy making when the liquid temperature is a rolling, churning, boiling cauldron of over three hundred degrees. When cold, it's as brittle as glass, like fiber optic thread. After it's poured out, then cooled in large quantities, it breaks, making the unmistakable sound of a rock hurling through a windshield or someone succumbing to thin ice. At least that's the childhood memory it reminded me of—before I died.

* * *

I wake.

Strange noises,  
Funny smells,  
Shrill beeps,  
Forced hissing.

Lights are blurry,  
Against dark night.  
Eyes are dry.

In a bed,  
Tubes all over.  
Brain real fuzzy.

Recall?

Not there.

In a hospital I must be?

Lying in a  
Polka-dotted johnny?

"Get Well" greetings,  
Tacked to a wall.  
Flowers in pots,  
Placed on the sill.  
Fingers of warmth,  
Curled over mine.

Handsome man  
Soundly sleeps  
In the chair  
Next to me,  
My hand coupled inside his.

Who is he?  
Who am I . . . ?

I need to breathe.  
I start to panic.  
I kick at sheets.  
An alarm goes off.

He yells for them.  
The scrubs come running.

Telling me to still,  
They keep drawing near.

Feeding my drip,

My calm returns.

A warming rush,  
Waves throughout.

Lashes get heavy.  
Head feels happy.

Lights out,  
Once again . . .

Wake up,  
Still dark,  
Throat sore,  
On fire.

Fewer lines in me,

Still beeping,  
No hissing.

My hand is warm,  
The one he's holding,

I see his face,  
turned towards me.

With shiny tears,  
Poised in his eyes.  
And moistened lips  
Upon my wrist.

A warm rush  
flows again.

No needle this time.

He's beautiful.  
He cares.  
Who is he?  
Who am I . . .?

Can't talk,  
Too painful.  
For water,  
I gesture.  
He gets them  
to bring some.  
They talk.  
I listen.  
I drink.  
They praise.

He smiles  
Quite wonderfully.

I must be dreaming.

Ouch . . . guess not.

They pinch,  
They pull,  
The IV is gone.

Ginger ale?  
I nod.  
They leave.  
He beams.

_Who_ . . . is he?  
I think I'm Bella.

Yes!

I know I am.  
But how'd I get here?

Reminiscent rewind,  
Scanning thoughts.

Sunlit Sunday,  
Trudging snow,  
Crackling ice.

A hundred spears  
Pierce my body,  
Paralyzingly cold.

I fight harder,  
Cannot breathe.  
I drift further,  
And see light.

A heavenly form  
Above the ice.

It's him!  
_He_ rescued me!

What day is it?

I eye my phone.

Pulled from a bag,  
He picks it up,  
And turns it on.  
Then moves the screen,

It dawns on me.

I gave it care!  
_It _didn't drown.

My calender says,  
It's Friday night.  
Have I a date?

In my hospital gown?  
With this beautiful man?  
Who saved my life?

I ask for paper.  
I need to know.  
Why is he here?

With me?

Right now?

My hand on paper,

He helps me start.  
His hands are cut,  
And black and blue.

And who are you?

No.

I cross that out.

What is your name?

_Edward Cullen_

How long have you . . .?

_Been here?  
Since Sunday._

Why?

_I had to be __sure_

_You'd be_

_all right._

You rescued me?

_Yes._

_And I'd do it again._

What happened to your hands?

_I pounded the ice,  
to break you free._

What happened to me?

_You fell through _

_a thin spot  
and luckily drifted  
to where I fished.  
I grabbed your hand,  
and held it tightly,  
while sawing,  
and pounding,  
to break you free._

_I pulled you out,  
and called for help,  
and forced my air_

_into your lungs._

_Then kept waiting,  
and breathing,  
and waiting,  
then breathing._

The warm rush comes,  
because of him.

_They were there  
in twenty minutes,  
But I refused  
to let you go.  
I went with them,  
To be with you._

I feel even warmer . . .

But why?  
Why did you care?

_When you fell through,  
I heard angels weep.  
I had to act.  
I've no regrets.  
You were,  
No are,  
Just beautiful._

_And I think . . .  
I love you._

* * *

A/N: I plan to continue this at some point.

Please share your thoughts.

Immense thanks to Chayasara for fixing me in more ways than one.

And thank you to Daphodill and Bornonhalloween for believing in me.

Thank you for reading.

PAD


	2. Pre-crack

Stephenie Meyer owns everything _Twilight_; I own my plot, characters, and voice.

* * *

Pre-crack

* * *

"If it's for me, I'm a hard nut to crack, and I take it standing up." It's a quote from Bram Stoker's _Dracula_. I'm reading it for one of my literature classes and just had to chuckle when I read it, thinking about Professor Cullen and the notoriety he's achieved on campus as being the "hardest crack." Personally, I would like to give him the benefit of the doubt and just think of him as maybe the "toughest nut". I've been told he's definitely the most difficult professor, but I've never had him for any of my classes and certainly wouldn't shy away from the challenge.

To be honest, I'm not even sure what he looks like because he buries himself in his office and in his work, hiding behind dark glasses and a strange hat in addition to locked doors. He's even somewhat of an enigmatic urban legend who students and faculty know very little of but continue to spin stories about. All I know is if I were to ever have a chance encounter, I would certainly give him the respect he deserves, as we all like to keep close—our secrets.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\HC

I'm making my routine Sunday trek across the lake with my backpack in hand and my phone securely tucked into a ziplock bag safe from the snow. I see various people having fun skating, sliding, and sledding. I even see him, the fisherman, whom I normally see. He's always too far away and bundled up for me to make out his features, but we always exchange respectful nods, nonetheless, whenever I pass. Today is no different, and I greet him with a wave of my head, both going to and coming from the library. I feel something, maybe sadness, for the man, whenever I pass, but it's not my place to judge his life, nor his apparent solitude.

As I walk past and away from him, I notice something different. The sky parts to pass on its golden glow. I even hear birds chirping although the sun is readying to set. Almost a flat calm comes over me. I feel content, happy, elated . . . at peace. Then I hear_ it_, that unmistakable sound of my life, ripping away.

* * *

A/N:

Please share your thoughts.

* * *

Thank you, Chayasara, for your watchful eye and caring keystrokes.

* * *

Please view my updates for "Watching You", "Rude Awakenings", and "Skater Boy and Boarder Girl". I will be posting more of "Never Judge By The Cover", shortly for those of you, needing to get caught. I am still working on "Boys Will Be" and will be posting updates to "Unhinged" as well.

* * *

Thank you for reading.

PAD


End file.
